“Hey, babe, I know how. Want me to show you?”
“Grow up first. Maybe we’ll talk in ten years.” She caught the ball that Lester shot to her. And fast, without looking, she threw it in the direction of Fisk. The boy was startled, but caught it. “Good job,” she said. “See? Your hands actually work for something besides picking pockets.”
Then she threw herself into the game, or whatever it was.
Her face changed, Danny thought. Her eyes went hot. Passion, he thought. It was there on her face, a hunger both for the release of the exercise and the need to win, assuming her game even had rules. Her hair bounced, all long, dark ringlets that made a man’s hand itch for palms full of it.
A new girl had joined the kids from outside, as well, he realized. She caught the sleeve of the woman’s white sweater. In an instant the woman stopped playing and turned, looking concerned. Then she slung an arm over the girl’s shoulder and together they moved off the court in his direction, their heads close as they whispered.
“Ah, man,” Lester said. “Damn Anita’s got more problems than an ex-con.”
Somehow Danny doubted that.
The woman made a semirude gesture in the boy’s direction and it shut him right up. Passion and kindness, he thought, and no-nonsense guts. He felt one corner of his mouth try to pull into a smile. Danny rubbed his palm over it to get rid of the reflex.
When she looked up and saw him, she stopped midstride. “Who are you?”
Danny lowered his hand and stepped out of the stairwell. “Danny Gates.” Her eyes were emerald green, he noticed, and she definitely had freckles.
“Is that your rattletrap out there?” she demanded.
“My what?” She’d lost him.
“Your car. There’s a car out there in my parking space.”
“There’s no assigned parking out there.”
“I always leave my car at the door. There’s an old yellow Dodge there now, in my spot.”
“It’s lemon.”
It was her turn to frown in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”
“Lemon. That’s what the salesman called it.”
“He might have been referring to its condition, you know, not its color.”
That snagged his pride. He walked past her. “Yeah, if the car in question is lemon, then that would be mine.”
“A rose by any other name…” She shrugged and pivoted to follow him with her gaze. “Are you leaving now? Because if you are, I’ll move my car back to where it belongs since the rain’s tapered off a little. I don’t want to have to run a block in a downpour to get to it when I’m done here.”
He stopped and looked back at her. It had been a while since he’d had occasion to handle a woman, Danny thought, but he was pretty sure he could remember how the routine went. Something told him that this one was used to having her own way, to giving orders. He’d have to fix that if she intended to spend any time around here playing with his kids.
“Finders keepers,” he drawled. “I was there first. Live with it.”
“I’m staying here for a while, and you’re not!”
“Who says?”
“I…well, I volunteer here. I’m Molly French.”
“Yeah? I work here. I live here. Guess you’ll have to find someplace else for your vehicle from here on in, won’t you? That spot is mine now.”
He had the pleasure of seeing her jaw drop as he picked up the ball that had fallen at center court. “Okay, here’s how we’re going to do this,” he said to the kids. “Let me show you how you’re supposed to play basketball, not that sissy thing you were doing a minute ago.”
He heard the woman make a choked sound of outrage behind him. Danny grinned to himself, and this time he didn’t wipe the reflex away.
His new life was starting to look interesting.
Chapter 2
Who did he think he was?
Molly stared after the guy as he started snapping out directives to the kids. Her kids. For the most part, they were ogling him, just as she was.
“Sure, this’ll work,” she murmured aloud.
Already Lester had that evil gleam in his eye. She gave five-to-one odds that he’d be tripping Mr. Basketball with one of his big booted feet within the next two or three minutes. He was generally the one who protected the kids’ turf from hostile adults. Jerome just shrugged and went to sit down at the edge of the court—he was the most easy-going of the lot and didn’t get worked up about much. As for Bobby…well, Bobby J. rarely showed much reaction to anything, Molly thought. Beneath his bristle-shaved hair, his brown eyes were as watchful as his expression was neutral. He stood at the edge of the court, so painfully thin it hurt her. Bobby rarely spoke to anyone. When he showed up at the center, he was just…there. It was anybody’s guess why he bothered to come by at all.
The coach-nobody-wanted was in Fisk’s face now, talking to him urgently. Molly took in his clothes—really bad-fitting jeans and a rain-dampened blue chambray shirt that was at least one, if not two, sizes too small. Who was he? she wondered again. And where had he come from?
In another thirty seconds, Molly had had enough.
She stalked over to him, reaching for the basketball. “Give me that.”
He went up on his toes, his arm extended, the ball balanced on his hand. He was tall. It was well out of her reach. With a quick little thrust of his wrist, he sent the ball sailing, then it dropped neatly through the hoop. He was all male grace and flexing muscle. It was quite a sight, Molly admitted, swallowing carefully. Something tickled her pulse.
“Nothing but net.” He turned and grinned at her. “You were saying?”
“I—” Molly began, then her mind went blank.
He kept watching her with the kind of smile that spelled trouble…and the trouble was an invitation. Come play with me and get burned. Some women were crazy for his type, and Molly discovered in that moment that she could definitely be one of them.
Unfortunately, they didn’t go crazy for her.
Molly planted her hands on her hips. A lock of her hair fell into her eyes and she blew it back. “Okay. That was pretty.”
“Thank you.”
“And it was a total waste of effort.”
“Says who?”
“Says me. We’re dealing with a bunch of aimless teenagers here, not the Houston Rockets.”
He feigned a look of utter awe. “You know about the Rockets?”
“Knock it off,” she growled.
“Come on, come on, you’re on a roll here. I’ll help you. They’re a basketball team. They actually play by certain rules. They get paid for it. Five-on-five competition in four quarters. Man-to-man defense, twenty-four-second clock to shoot. Does all that sound familiar?”
“Basketball isn’t the issue here.” She ground the words out and realized her jaw was tight.
“Tell that to Ron Glover.”
Ron Glover was the director of the rec center. Molly frowned. What had he said earlier? I work here. “Ron hired you to play basketball? We